Star
by HGRomance
Summary: He's the son of a gentleman. She barely passes for a lady. In a world of ballrooms and proper snobs, they're best friends...until friendship is no longer enough. But who will admit it first is the maddening question. Historical AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Dear friends,**

**One year ago today, I posted this on Tumblr as a gift for the majestic, Court81981. Now, it's here as the beginning of a WIP ficlet for her. I usually complete majority of a story before posting it, but this is an exception. I've only begun, have no schedule, and updates will take much longer than normal, since I'm working on my second book, which takes priority. But I hope you guys enjoy this snowy prologue to Everlark as historical bffs!**

**Alas, after ****_Enemy_****, this will also be my last fanfic. Believe me, it's not easy to stop. It's been more meaningful than I can express to write these stories, but after two and a half years, I feel ready to move on. I've got some more ideas for YA novels and can only hope that you'll keep me company while I tiptoe through new storytelling territory!**

**Like I said, though. It'll take me a while to complete this one, and in the meantime, I'll see you in the next chapter. I started this fanfic gig with a historical, and I'm ending it with a historical. Full circle :*) So here we go...**

**Court, I adore you to pieces. You shine. And you know it.**

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><p>STAR<p>

_District Twelve_

_Christmas Eve, 1843_

The Seam girl suspected that she may have wandered into a dream. For winter wore a prettier face in this fancy part of the district, where people lived in snow-capped, iron-gated townhomes and shopped along cobblestone lanes. Bells rung out everywhere, swaying from the church and jostling from the furry-hoofed horses that pulled sleighs down the streets.

Not only that, but the silvery sound could be heard at each storefront, whenever doors opened and closed. The windows glowed with treasures: rosy-cheeked puppets at the toy shop, hats festooned with primroses at the milliner's, and bolts of satin at the seamstress's. Most of all, iced gingerbread cookies and raisin bread at the bakery, which made the girl's hollow stomach grumble. People bustled around her, going from one business to the next. All manner of merchants and gentry convened here, their purses fat and their arms laden with packages tied in green ribbons. Some had children with them. Girls around her age, perhaps ten or eleven, wore velvet capes lined in ermine, their glossy ringlets bouncing as they trotted beside their parents. Meanwhile, the Seam girl smoothed over her braid and gathered her tattered cloak closer to her chest.

A brother and sister—they looked exactly alike, so they must have been siblings—quarreled over a peppermint pinwheel, their whines overlapping.

"One at a time," their father said. "Speak one at a time, or you will loose your voice."

The siblings clamped their mouths shut. Having eavesdropped, the girl smirked at the falsehood, amused despite her envy. She wished she had a mama and papa, too, that sickness hadn't stolen them away when she was a baby, or that she hadn't been left with Grisly Uncle Cray, who didn't care a snit for her. Having a real home and a real family was her biggest wish, more than a toasty feather bed or a full belly. However wishing hadn't worked before, and it wouldn't work now. The stars—any star, for that matter—were too busy to hear the pleas of someone as insignificant as her.

A lamplighter strolled across the sidewalk, his movements catching the girl's attention. Arrested, she watched as he inserted the end of a shaft into the bottom of a lamp strung in garland and released a quiet burst of flame. He winked at her and then moved on, humming to himself. The humming reminded the girl that she had work to do. Grisly Uncle Cray had warned her that if she didn't return home with wages, he would toss her into the workhouse. And that frightened her more than anything, more than ghosts.

Breath steaming against the glacial air, she brushed off a knoll snowflakes from her shoulders and trudged through the streets, her gangly legs carrying her deep into the residential area of town. These homes were not the grand seats of the aristocracy, but they were still a world away from her own, ovals of fog outlining the window panes to reveal candles that flickered from the needled branches of Christmas trees. Such a magical life, that these people could afford to use up so many candles!

The girl crept past the front gate of a four-story townhouse, to a towering door with a brass knocker, topped by some sort of bird figure. She was too intimidated to touch it, so she used her fist instead, timidly at first, then more insistent because both her knuckles and nose stung from the cold. She ached for the orange glint fluttering from inside. She listened to the ruckus of a latch being unlocked, followed by the sight of the strangest beard she'd ever beheld, coiling and sharp at the ends. A man dressed in gray livery—she thought he was called a _footsir_ or _footmer_ or _footman_—filled the doorway and pruned her down to a twig with his gaze. He slid a fob watch from his pocket and flicked the lid open with his thumb. "You have precisely three seconds to make yourself scarce, beggar."

The girl longed to snuggle into a protective shadow but forced herself to stand her ground, though it did little to stir an iota of the man's sensitivity. Her teeth clattered as she prevailed upon him, "I-I-I've c-c-come to s-s-sing for—"

"This is a respectable home. We don't deal in charity. Off with you now."

He was about to shut the door, but the girl's cry of protest startled him so much that he paused.

"I say, what's all the fuss?" inquired another man from within the house. The servant—she was sure now, he was called a _footman_—moved aside for an older gentleman with a kind face, threads of gray in his hair, and a dusting of flour on his arms.

"My apologies, sir," the servant sneered. "This urchin refuses to leave, though I've told her twice to be on her way."

The man turned his attention to the shivering girl. "What can I do for you, little miss?"

His voice was like whipped custard, softer than the footman's or Grisly Uncle Cray's, and more refined than the brogues and cockney accents of her neighbors in the Seam. It eased her chills, enough for her to speak plainly. "If you please, sir, I'm here to sing a carol for you. For a small wage."

The footman was aghast. "A thief up to no good, indeed."

It shocked the girl that the servant would speak out of turn, but his master simply waved off the comment. "Oh, thief-smief. Go away, Seneca. You have enough to do, so look smart about it. And fetch Peeta for me."

The servant blanched and grudgingly disappeared into the townhouse, his coattails flapping behind him.

"I always thought butlers answered doors. Not footmen," the girl said, more confident now that she and the man were alone.

He quirked a bushy brow in amusement. "A curious one, aren't you? Indeed butlers do, but ours is terribly ill at the moment. Our first footman is doing the honors temporarily."

"That's too bad for your visitors."

At the man's agreeing laughing, the girl said, "I can sing anything you want. I know all the carols."

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"The Seam, sir."

"Orphaned?"

For a second, she hesitated. "No. I'm working, 'tis all. Carols for pennies."

"You're rather brave to jaunt all the way here on your own," he remarked with a concerned expression that she didn't quite understand.

Heat shimmied up her neck. "I can survive just fine," she assured him.

He chuckled once more. "I suppose I'll have to believe that. Em . . . just a moment." He craned his head over his shoulder and then back at her. "My son was helping me bake, and he's a bit slow coming from the kitchen. He loves handling the dough even more than his drawing pencils."

Warmth brimmed from inside the house, as well as the smell of black pudding and sugarplums. "Baking?" she asked.

"Indeed. I own the bakery in the square."

The girl brightened. Food was his skill. That made him a magician! "Oh, I know that place," she exclaimed. "I've seen your raisin loaves in the window."

The man bowed. "You have a fine eye. That's our specialty. We prosper a great deal from it."

Funny that. And how strange. And confusing. Wasn't he a gentleman? Rich folk, with houses like these, who talked fancy like him, didn't need to work. They had no reason to be in trade.

"In fact," the man continued, "my son and I were just starting a new batch of raisin loaves. However, I'm sure he'd like to indulge in a break and hear you sing."

It certainly seemed that way, because just then a boy appeared, peeking behind his father. He was light itself, with golden hair and a face that reminded her of an ornament. And his eyes—they were extraordinarily blue, like jewels. Or better yet, like faerie wings. His eyes widened and gleamed when they looked upon her.

The girl was suddenly aware of her fingerless gloves and the filth caking her nails. She should have washed her hands before venturing here, but from the way he smiled at her . . . it was like he didn't mind that she was dirty. He stepped closer, eagerly planting himself in front of his father.

Peeta. That was what the man called him.

The girl's cheeks felt like they were roasting, which was a comfort but also scary. She averted her gaze.

Peeta tugged on his father's sleeve until the man leaned over, listening as the boy whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and ruffled his son's hair. "Good choice. Now." The man rubbed his hands. "How much for _The Valley Song_? It's not a carol, but—" Wistfulness glinted in his eyes. "But it's a special one for us. It was a favorite of Peeta's mother."

Oh? Peeta must have lost his mama. The Seam girl understood what that was like.

"What's your price?" the man repeated.

"A copper?" she suggested, fretting whether she should have gone higher than a penny and possibly asked for a tuppence.

"Hmm." He tapped his chin, giving it such consideration that the girl braced herself. Finally, he said, "If your voice earns it, a shilling seems more fair. Don't you agree?"

The little girl gasped. A shilling!

"Go on, then," he encouraged.

The girl's stomach flipped over at the thought of having to sing in front of this boy. She cleared her throat and began, the lyrics curling from her throat and blending into the winter night. Peeta's eyes danced with blueness. She never thought of the color as hopeful until now, and that she had something to do with it made her proud. She liked to think her singing voice was mythical.

When she finished, the gentleman was speechless. "That was remarkable. Thank you very much. Truly, my dear."

"Th-thank you," the boy echoed, his voice reaching out to her like a hand would. He bit his lower lip and shuffled his feet in an anxious manner. "Um . . . one more?"

"Peeta," his father scolded with good-nature. "We can't take up so much of the girl's time. She has other houses to enliven." Yet there was a heavy pause in which he scratched the back of his head, delaying for some reason.

Ah, of course. He must have been waiting for a proper goodbye. The girl curtsied, grateful to have earned her shilling but feeling an even greater loss as the man sighed and ushered his son back into the house. Before the door closed, Peeta gave her one more desperate look.

As she headed down the lane, she was surprised by how much she missed his face already. But at least she had her wages, and she tried to cheer herself by skipping like she used to when she was five. She thought how pleased her uncle would be and wondered if he'd let her keep some of the money for a treat.

Her skips got higher and faster. And then she fell, her knees skidding over the pavement, and disaster struck. For a dark figure helped her up, then dashed off, and that's when she discovered that her shilling was gone. The nasty pickpocket! Her night turned to spoils! She couldn't even run after the crook and tackle him because it happened too fast.

Frightened by what Grisly Uncle Cray would do to her when she got home, the girl hid in a murky alleyway and dropped onto the ground in despair, weeping for the loss of her good fortune. Maybe this was where she'd starve. She hadn't had a bite in ages, and if she did perish here, at least she'd be with her mama and papa again. Maybe she should let herself die. She was on the verge anyway. Of that, she was certain.

"Psst," came a pinched voice to her right. "Hey. Psst."

She whirled around and scanned the shadows, her eyes popping when she discovered the baker's son, Peeta, edging towards her. His own eyes trembled with worry. "Are you okay?"

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I followed you. I ran out of the house when my papa wasn't looking."

"That's not nice of you!"

"Are you hungry?" Peeta asked, crouching in front of her and holding out a slice of raisin bread that smelled of cinnamon.

The girl wavered. What was he about, coming after her like this? Oh no, had he seen her fall?

"Go on," he said, wiggling the bread at her. "It won't bite. That's your job."

Fine. She had nothing left to lose, and her stomach hurt so badly, like a knife twisting into her gut. She fancied a good long pause before accepting the slice, her fingers touching his in the exchange. She feasted, ravishing the crusted morsel with her teeth. Jehoshaphat, it tasted like life itself!

The boy plopped down next to her, hugging his legs to his chest. "You sure have a pretty voice."

She examined his waistcoat, cravat, and tailored pants. "You're going to ruin your fine clothes," she warned with her mouth full. "The ground is wet and grimy. So is everything else in reaching distance."

"I don't care. It's worth it to sit beside you."

"You shouldn't be following people."

"Sorry. What's your name?"

"Katniss."

"How old are you?"

She swallowed the last of the bread and then wrinkled her nose. "I don't like questions."

"I'll give you more bread if you tell me."

All he really needed to do was keep smiling, but that was a private thought, and she vowed never to reveal it. Never ever. Not in a million years. "I think I'm eleven." When he squinted, she explained, "That's what my Grisly Uncle Cray says. But I don't know my birthday."

"What about your mama and papa?"

"They died. I live with my uncle, but he's not really my family. He doesn't want me around. No one does."

Peeta shook his head, which shimmered in the dark. He jabbed at his chest. "You're wrong. _I_ want you around."

"No, you don't. You're a boy. Boys don't want girls around."

"I'm not just a boy. I'm Peeta."

She rolled her eyes, elated by his declaration. But once more, she wasn't going to say it out loud and make a ninny of herself. "Fine," she said. "I'll allow that. You can have me around if you offer more bread." And again, if he kept smiling at her.

Peeta thought about something. "Do you come from the stars, Katniss? Because you sing like you do. You sing like magic."

She managed a weak giggle. He grinned back, revealing a duet of dimples, and the effect was like a match against a tinderbox, sparking inside her tummy. She liked how their breaths clouded together in the frosty air. Giddiness bubbled inside her.

She opened her mouth to thank him for the bread when a distraught voice cried out. "Peeta! Peeta!"

"Uh-oh," Peeta groaned. "I'm in trouble." He cupped his mouth and called, "Over here!"

Just then, his father came bounding into the alleyway. In his haste, he nearly slipped on the icy ground. Katniss watched in fascination, and with immense longing, as the gentleman sank to his knees and yanked Peeta to his chest, hugging him with all his might. When he pulled back, he braced his hands on Peeta's shoulders, his face wrinkled with anger. "Have you gone bedlam? What were you thinking, dashing off like that?!"

Peeta babbled his response. "I had to, Papa. Katniss was hungry, anyone could see it, and I couldn't just let her leave, and I went after her because her voice made us happy, and I wanted to hear it again and give her some bread, and she was here, and I'm sorry, but—"

The man belted out a tired laugh. "All right, all right. Hush, now." He regarded the girl while still holding Peeta. "Katniss, is it?"

Katniss fiddled with her braid. "Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir. I didn't know he would follow me. Please don't be mad, sir—"

"None of that. I'm Mr. Mellark to anyone who knows me."

"But I don't know you."

"You sang for me, so now you know me. You know _us_."

"Katniss is a star," Peeta boasted. "That's where her voice comes from."

"I'll wager it does," Mr. Mellark answered fondly.

"Can she come home and help us bake?"

Katniss scowled. She wanted to shove Peeta for asking that. It was mortifying.

"Peeta, you must remember that Katniss has a family to return to," his papa said.

On the other hand, his rejection injured her far worse than any embarrassment could. Weariness dragged her shoulders down. These two had been so kind to her. She liked them very much. She wanted to keep them.

Grisly Uncle Cray didn't want to keep her. And even though she didn't want to be pitied, she enjoyed making Peeta grin, and she thought she might follow his eyes anywhere. Also, there was more food at the Mellarks' house. A fire and a Christmas tree, as well.

The words tumbled from her mouth like marbles. "I don't have a family."

Mr. Mellark twisted toward her and frowned. "I thought you said you weren't orphaned."

"I fibbed," she fibbed.

Only a trifle, though. Cray wouldn't miss her, to be sure. So it was partly the truth.

Peeta stared at her intently but didn't give away her secret. He was a good ally. He smelled wonderful, too, like fresh snowfall and sweets and dough. Like hope.

They swapped shy glances, and she noticed Peeta's father studying them both, his gaze traveling between them. She wondered what he saw, but whatever it was, it softened his features and swelled his voice with affection. "Well, Katniss the Star. It appears you've had quite the effect on us. We do have two raisin loaves to finish before tomorrow. Your assistance would mean a great deal. We can pay you with supper and a warm bed, if you'd like." He got to his feet and offered her another kindly look. "We have plenty of room."

Supper. A warm bed. Ohhh.

Her chin rose. They needed her. She liked being needed.

Peeta straightened his cravat, all gentleman-like, and held out his hand. "Would you like to come home with us, Katniss?"

The question felt so important, like a gift that would last for as long as she wanted it to. She took Peeta's hand. Impulsively, she kissed his cheek, then jerked back, feeling as red-faced as he looked. However, that smile of his returned, even bigger than before. He squeezed her hand, and all the way back to the house, he never let go.

Before they stepped through the front door together, Katniss glanced up and saw a cluster of stars. And it was funny, because when she gazed at them long enough, they got fuzzy around the edges and became something else.

Something like a dandelion.

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><p><strong>I'm at: andshewaits (d0t) tumblr (d0t) com. Come say hi and see the holiday giveaway I'm hosting!<strong>

**Big thank you to Chelzie for being a fantastic beta!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own THE HUNGER GAMES trilogy. It belongs to Suzanne Collins. I merely want to spend more time with her characters.**


	2. Chapter 2

***PLEASE NOTE: This chapter has been extended and is now twice as long as the original Tumblr post.**

**Again, this is for you, Court :)  
><strong>

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><p><em>District Twelve, 1850<em>

Sneaking out the window wasn't the difficult part. It was the fifteen-foot drop that gave Katniss pause. With one leg dangling over the sill, the skirts of her forest-green gown hiked to her knees and revealing her stocking-clad legs for all the world to see, she braced her hands on the frame and bit her tongue in contemplation. Drat. A daring escape wasn't going to be as easy as those swashbuckling heroes make it seem in books. Not to mention, those characters were grown men in mortal peril, not eighteen year-old girls wishing to flee a party.

She hated the Season. She hated the debutante balls, masquerades, fetes, teas, and luncheons that came with this time of year, when Panem's social elite woke up from hibernation and pranced out of their gilded cages to play hosts. The only enjoyable thing about these events was the food. Yet even the most decadent lamb savory couldn't persuade Katniss to endure one more moment of Miss Deliah Cartwright. An angel to the world. A dragon to Katniss. Since the day they met, the spoiled chit has never fooled Katniss, a fact which has fueled their mutual hatred ever since.

Fine. There was another reason why Deliah's talons came out every time they were together. It circulated around Katniss's best friend.

She shook her head. There was no point in dwelling on that when she was hanging out of a second-story window, intent on breaking a social commandment and possibly her leg. It was bad enough that Deliah had beaten Katniss—by one blasted anonymous vote!—and was crowned president of The Young Ladies Committee for the Habitat of Endangered Mockingjays and Redeemable Mutts. Now, Katniss was stuck in the dragon's townhouse, enduring the Cartwright version of a "humble" fundraiser. Musicians, lavish gowns, and scores of inebriated attendees who couldn't care less about the cause.

No surprise, Deliah used this charity to show off. All she cared about was popularity and connections—and torturing Katniss. At dinner, the dragon purposefully sat Katniss between the devil and the deep blue sea. The two most annoying gentleman in existence. To Katniss's right sat Percy Flickerman, the horse-toothed son of Caesar Flickerman, who possessed the unique ability to talk and shovel enormous forkfuls of passion fruit mousse into his mouth at the same time. He'd prattled on, subjecting her to the fumes of his opium breath and an impassioned dissertation about the merits of inbreeding. Katniss's attentions were divided between trying to guess what mental institution he'd escaped from, and the wandering fingers of her other companion.

To her left sat Marvel St. Marvel II, son of Marvel St. Marvel I, a dandy with a fetish for outmoded pastel waistcoats and bloated breasts. His eyes had slithered to the off-the-shoulder neckline of her dress, and under the polished mahogany table, his palm landed on her thigh. If she weren't so repelled by his touch, the bold move would have impressed her.

Instead, she casually stabbed the bastard's knuckles with her fork. And that was the end of that.

Deliah tittered behind her fan and relished Katniss's dilemma. Well played. Deliah wanted war? Katniss would give her war! Vengeance was hers!

But for the moment, she just had to get out of this house. Pleading a headache or an attack of the vapors was out of the question, for that would make her look weak. Deliah the Dragon might notice Katniss leaving and make a snide public remark about it, perhaps poke fun at her for being a sourpuss, or feign sympathy and declare Katniss a poor "sickly" thing in front of everybody.

Sneaking out the back window into the crisp spring evening was the best option. The townhouse was conveniently located on a street corner, free of neighbors to the east, which made escaping from the garden possible. And risking a broken bone was a meager price to pay. Besides, a blossoming apple tree was just in reach.

Katniss plucked off her gloves and buried them in her reticule. To free up her hands, she stuffed the handbag down her bodice and stifled a giggle at the way it made her chest pop. She grasped the open shutter and leaned forward, extending her arm, her fingers scraping the edge of a thick branch. Almost there. _Almost. _After minutes of huffing and cursing the invention of stiff petticoats, Katniss seized the branch and hoisted herself into the tree's embrace. Then she hung there like a chandelier.

Oh boy. She predicted the tongue lashing she was certain to get at home for this. Greasy Sae, the only servant who called her by her given name, would lecture her to grow up and start acting like a respectable lady. The cook would ignore Katniss's excuses and squawk the usual lecture: "Oh, fiddlesticks! If you wanted to be babied, you should have asked Peeta."

At the very thought of her best friend, Katniss grunted and began kicking out her legs to find purchase on the tree. "Well, Peeta's not here," she snapped aloud to herself, dejected and cranky.

He wasn't here. He'd been spending the past twelve months gallivanting across the country and embracing the many advantages of being a male, all but abandoning Katniss to a lifetime sentence of etiquette and needlepoint. The traitor.

At last, her feet made contact with a knob in the tree trunk. The foundation stabilized her enough so that her hands clamped along the upper branch until she reached the cradle of the tree. From there, she crawled down and plopped onto a lower bough. Now it would be an easy descent to the ground, and then a quick hop over the side gate.

The tree's brittle hide had scraped her palms, tore her left slipper, and stained the hem of her gown. And it was wonderful. To be disheveled instead of primped, to inhale the fresh green scent of nature instead of the guests' perfume, to rub her nose against the flowering blossoms instead of choking the stem of a champagne glass. Breaking the rules shouldn't feel this jubilant, yet Katniss rebelled and allowed herself to enjoy it.

Also, the stars were out. They always gave her comfort. Years ago, on that fateful holiday night when she sang carols for pennies, the stars followed her from the Seam into the fancy part of town. And when she was rescued from the streets and whisked away into the heart of a loving family, it felt as though something special was granted to her.

Gazing up, Katniss found herself smiling. No matter where life took her, the stars would be with her. One of the first things Peeta ever said to her was that she sang like she came from the stars. She often linked her best friend to the sky, too. The points of light that led her home. She missed him terribly. He—

"Ah, what have we here?" a nasal voice droned.

Katniss tensed. No. No, please!

She glared down through the branches and into a pair of carnivorous eyes bulging from the sockets of young Marvel St. Marvel. Yes, it was him. Devil take her! With her skirts open to him like this, she must resemble a first-rate doxy. If Deliah got wind of this, it would give her the ultimate ammunition to ruin Katniss.

"We meet again," St. Marvel said. "Hunting for squirrels, are we?"

"I—"

"Shh. I understand perfectly."

Comical and unconvincing, indeed. Seven years had passed since she became Mr. Mellark's ward, but she still exercised her Seam wits. Still needed them. "Ha. You must think I'm a simpleton," she scoffed.

"Of course not," St. Marvel insisted, then leaned into the tree trunk and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. "This party is the dullest of the Season. I can't blame you for fleeing." He extended a hand encircled with lace. "Come. I won't tell a soul."

At Katniss's scowl, he sighed. "I behaved appallingly at dinner. Allow me to make amends. Please."

Humph. But maybe he wasn't as revolting and stupid as she thought. Maybe he was fond of her but had been educated in the wrong manner—by his miserly weasel of a father—on courting. No boy had ever shown an interest in Katniss before. Not that she encouraged them. So perhaps it was time to change that. If she could be a lady for a moment, St. Marvel could be a gentleman. And if she was wrong, she would simply punch him.

Careful not to expose her legs, Katniss descended the tree. Accepting Marvel's hand, she hopped to the ground and exhaled with relief. "Thank y—" She squeaked as his arms flung around her waist and pulled her against him.

"I can't bear it," he growled. "No more of this game. No pretending we're proper. End my suffering!"

"What?" She flattened her palms on his chest and tried to wrench herself back. "Let go of me. Now."

Scarlet flushed Marvel's face. He grasped her so desperately that her head whipped back. "Ughhnn," she groaned.

"Miss Everdeen. Flame of my dreams. Pearl of my heart—"

"Oh, my God."

"No need to be flustered or ashamed, my Kat."

All right. No one . . . _nooooo one . . . _called her Kat except her best friend. She was Peeta's Kat. Not Marvel's.

"I see my prose has compelled you," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "To commit murder if you don't release me!"

"What is death?" he declared, looking a bit insane. "I'm willing to die in glory for your kiss."

"Good heavens. Cease! Heel!" Katniss hissed, wrestling with him across the veranda while gaping around in fear that someone would catch them, or that someone _wouldn't_. She ducked out of his arms, then twirled away, only to be snatched by the shoulders and spun around for another dance of resistance. Her annoyed grunts clashed with his clumsy attempts to wax poetic.

"Don't deny the passion between us," Marvel wailed in a theatrical soprano. "Spare yourself."

"I'm trying," she assured him, swinging out her arm to reach a topiary urn, perfect to knock him unconscious with.

"I'm not a reckless man. Nor a fervent one by nature, but I say, I say, I say. You've bewitched me, stirred my immortal soul. I would walk on fire for you."

"By all means, the hearth is inside."

Her fingertips grazed the urn, but Marvel snatched her wrist and pressed it to his bony chest. He wet his lips not once, but twice, and dove in for what promised to be the most disgusting moment of her life: her first kiss. She arched her face away. The shrivel fruit of his puckered mouth mashed into her cheek—then vanished altogether.

An elegant, masculine hand appeared out of nowhere, seizing Marvel's collar and shoving him into the balustrade. The force wasn't brutal, but strong and graceful. Almost playful. She knew that hand. She knew those movements like her own.

His voice curled into the night air, a tangle of boyish amusement and authority. "I believe you have the wrong lady. This one is mine."

Katniss's attention latched onto him, just as he turned to regard her. Same naughty blue eyes. Same rakish grin. Same golden, unkempt hair. Same sweet cologne. But he'd gotten broader over the year, filling out his black tailcoat and trousers beautifully. And naturally, like all he needed was the sun to grow.

Peeta.

Her Peeta. Her ally. Her partner in mischief was home.

Well, it's about time. Katniss puffed out her bottom lip, blew the hair from her eyes, and pouted at him. _You see what you left me to deal with? This is all your fault!_

Peeta merely cocked his head and smirked. A blanched and repentant St. Marvel stuttered a chorus of apologies. "M-mellark, w-when did you . . . My apologies, I truly don't know w-what came over me. I've b-been in the cups. I would never dishonor—"

"St. Marvel," Peeta said calmly while staring at Katniss.

"Mellark?" Marvel replied.

"I'm handy with a kitchen blade, but if you ever touch _my_ Kat again, forget domesticity. I'll crush your windpipe. Now go away."

St. Marvel tripped over himself en-route to the townhouse. Once the dandy disappeared inside, Peeta crossed an arm over his chest, balanced the opposite elbow atop, and placed a finger to his lips. He regarded her with a "Hmm," then curled his finger down so he could speak. "St. Marvel? Poor taste, Kat. I expected better from you."

Peeta's gaze slipped to her chest, his face alighting with mirth. "Apparently, you thought he did, too."

Oh, blast. Cheeks bursting, Katniss yanked her reticule from her bodice, then anchored her fists onto her hips. "Not funny. How long were you watching us before you decided to interrupt?"

He rolled his eyes and flicked his digits into the air. "Please. You can take care of yourself."

True. St. Marvel's concussion was on the horizon once her best friend finally intervened. And none of this was Peeta's doing. She only thought so because she was mad, but she'd never been able to blame him for anything he did. She was the fool who made the mistake of trusting a buffoon.

However, she and Peeta had a rule. They protected each other. Or they used to until he left.

Dammit it all. She wanted a hug. Badly.

"How long?" she repeated.

"Enough to know one thing for certain." And then he smiled at her with unconditional affection. "You're still in love with those stars."

Katniss's glare dissolved. Her mouth split with humor. She dashed into his embrace, throwing her head back with joy as he twirled her around, their laughter shooting into the sky. His strong arms held her tight and warm, his heart thumping in tandem with her own pulse, and his body seemed even more substantial than before he left—or else her imagination was playing tricks on her.

When he set her down, an oddly bereaved feeling rose in her chest. She yearned for a longer hug, a greater claim on his arms and hands. Simply . . . or _not simply . . . _more. Funny that. She must have missed him something awful, even worse than she realized.

Peeta cupped her cheeks and rested his nose against hers. The night sky, and the candlelight from inside the house, bathed him in ocher and ink. His sweet, puckish face reminded her of a rich custard. She felt a peculiar urge to lick him, eat him up with a spoon before anyone else got the chance.

"St. Marvel and my Kat," he chuckled, his breath steaming notes of brandy onto her lips. "If you want my blessing, you're in for a disappointment. Seriously, the dandy's ego weighs more than I do."

Mirthfully, Katniss grabbed the ends of his cravat, threatening to tighten it until he turned purple. "You be quiet," she warned through her teeth. "He ruined my stargazing."

"Heaven forbid," Peeta drawled.

"I can't do anything right without a constellation shining down on me. It's my good luck charm."

His lips formed an impish grin. "And here I thought that was me."

Katniss furrowed her brow, not caring for the sound of that. She shoved him away and quipped, "Do not flatter yourself, rascal."

"I prefer the term _scoundrel_."

"You've been gone for a year, and I've done plenty without you."

"So I noticed." He nudged his head back toward the tree, where St. Marvel had been attacking her with his slimy touch. "Describe this _plenty_."

"It's none of your business. Besides, my escapades in your absence might intimidate you," she bluffed, tossing the words out onto the breeze. "You may regret all that you missed by leaving me here to roam the range." She mock-shivered and added, "Unsupervised."

Peeta braced his hands on the balustrade, on either side of her waist, trapping her as he leaned in. He canted his head to the side. "I'm the one who's been gone. I bet I have more stories of sin to tell."

Excellent! A shame-a-thon! In the distance, a piano struck up a lively tune, as if encouraging the moment. And oh, how she'd longed for this again, playing games with him.

"Bet not," she dared.

"Let's hear it, then," he said. "Ladies first."

"Ah, ah, ah. Terms must be negotiated. If I out-scandalize you, what will I get?"

The veranda swayed beneath her feet as, for a dizzying instant, Peeta's gaze tripped to her mouth. "What would you like from me?"

Katniss blinked. She must have looked like a hooked and gaping fish out of water. Was her best friend flirting with her? Ewww. What had his travels done to him?

She had barely come up with a suitable joke to neutralize the moment when the garden's double doors swooped open, breaking them apart. Henceforth, a demon appeared on the threshold. A creature of scales and snout, an ancestor of gargoyles, a veritable she-dragon in a circle of pastel pink silk.

Deliah Cartwright. The debutante whose elitist jibes Katniss had failed to develop an immunity to over the ages, the girl whose sugar-coated grin proved as fake as her compassion. Her eyes targeted Katniss with a predatory gleam, but the instant those eyes shifted and leached onto Peeta, Deliah's entire demeanor changed. Her expression bubbled into champagne, her mouth perked into a voracious smile, and her bosom magically inflated to twice its size.

She sprung into action, flouncing over to his side. "Oh, my, my. If it isn't Peeta Mellark," she simpered. "I didn't know that you'd returned, you scoundrel. And how greedy of you, Miss Everdeen, holding Peeta prisoner out here."

_Mr. Mellark_, Katniss griped. _He's _Mr. Mellark_ to you. Not _Peeta_._

"Deliah," Peeta said informally, not helping matters one bit. With a gallant smile, he took the creature's hand and kissed it. "You look angelic."

Katniss rolled her eyes. Polite or not, did he have to use _that_ word to describe her?

The sight of her best friend charming evil itself made her blood curdle. He and the enemy grinned prettily at each other: Peeta and Deliah of the sunny hair, rosy complexion, and wealthy bloodlines—things Katniss would never possess.

Everyone knew about Katniss. Instead of lying, Peeta's father had been forthright, claiming her as his orphaned ward and bringing her up like a lady. In time, most of the people accepted her, thanks to the Mellark name. It had taken her forever to master their vocabulary and table manners, but even now she didn't measure up, the grime of her past still caked under her fingernails. The proud side of her often felt like a charity case, a notion that others held in private, concealed behind their polite expressions.

Beneath the corset and petticoats, the modern hats and gloves, Katniss was no more a lady than she'd ever been. Her pride insisted on doing whatever she could to earn her keep, be it managing the gardens or shadowing the gamekeeper on the Mellark's woodland estate outside of District 12. She refused to let people think her a useless damsel. She loathed the dainty life of a debutante, the sort of girl Peeta was destined to marry. A girl like Deliah.

"I saw St. Marvel dispatch himself from the veranda looking flushed," Deliah confided in a stage whisper. "I thought to investigate. Silly me not to consider your popularity with the beaus this season, Miss Everdeen. First Percy Flickerman, and now St. Marvel," she ticked off, then spoke to Peeta. "I should have known he'd be out here with her again."

Peeta's gaze shot to Katniss. "Again?"

Katniss glowered. Again, eh? This was news to her. She'd never been alone with either gentleman, neither St. Marvel, nor Percy and his hyena laugh. What was Deliah doing, implying that Katniss's heart was spoken for? Or that she was a hussy? As if Peeta would give a hoot about the former or believe the latter. He'd just witnessed what St. Marvel was capable of.

Deliah always tried to steer Peeta's attention from Katniss, make him see her in a cheaper light. Yet no matter how obvious and unfair Deliah's pursuits, Peeta still tolerated her.

"Your father's ward has such _creative_ taste in men," Deliah gushed. "I suppose coming from where she does, it must be necessary, what with so few choices."

Where Katniss came from. Deliah couldn't even utter it: The Seam. The land of shacks, smokestacks, and almshouses. The poor side of the district, where laundry hung out to dry over pits of mud, where babies wailed for milk, where people couldn't read or even define words like _destitute_. Where foundlings like her were born.

"Nevertheless, Miss Everdeen, it's in poor taste to monopolize two bachelors at the same party," Deliah lectured with a fixed smile. "You should restrain yourself, or the guests will get the wrong idea." Her eyes flitted to Peeta and back to Katniss, as if to push the meaning home. "Just because you're hungry doesn't mean the rest of us should starve. I daresay, one might call you greedy."

"Oh, no. Was I stealing your hostess thunder?" Katniss feigned remorse. "Aww, forgive me. I didn't realize it was so easy."

In response, Deliah's nostrils flared. Like a weapon, she snapped open her lace fan with a loud thwack and flapped it madly.

Peeta cleared his throat. "I hear you're raising funds for wildlife," he prompted Deliah, ever the buffer.

She sighed demurely. "I'm wretchedly attached to the cause, you know."

Oh, please! No, he didn't know. Neither did Katniss, since she was the one who'd suggested the charity in the first place. Deliah couldn't tell a mutt from a poodle, wouldn't know a mockingjay if it shat on her head.

In a false display of compassion, Deliah swept a tendril of hair from her face, exposing her creamy throat to Peeta. "So many poor, wild half-breeds to be tamed. Mockingjays," she proclaimed for the hundredth time tonight. Crossing her eyes, Katniss mouthed along with Deliah's rehearsed speech: "What a sorry lot, being hunted down and caged, raked over the coals for things they cannot control. If we don't build a habitat to redeem the savage beasts, who will?" Deliah threw up her hands to emphasize the point. Behind her, Katniss mimicked the gesture.

"We fight. We dare." Deliah wiggled her fingers in the air. "And all that."

Katniss mimed along. From his peripheral vision, Peeta caught what she was doing and thrust his tongue against the inside of his cheek in order to keep a straight face. It did wicked things to his jaw.

"It must be terrible," the damn girl continued, "being a primitive hybrid of good and bad. Mostly bad, of course." And here was the part where she detoured and lost Katniss. "But Miss Everdeen has been most helpful in educating us on the topic. She of all people knows what it's like to be of mixed breeding."

Fists balled, Katniss stepped in her direction. Peeta intervened before she did anything rash, hopping in front of her and offering Deliah his arm. "Might we have a dance? It's been too long."

The problem was that he sounded like he meant it. At his invitation, Deliah practically floated off the ground, and Katniss festered as the strumpet pranced toward the house, stealing her best friend not minutes after his return.

_Poker up, Katniss. He's only being polite to her and pacifying you. How bloody valiant of him._

But just before they disappeared into the light and music, Peeta twisted toward Katniss. And he winked. A silent promise to rejoin her after his social duties were through, to go home with her, where they would talk into the wee hours under his blanket. After all this time, nothing had changed between them, and nothing ever would. Having a best friend was too precious a gift to loose. Thankfully, there was no threat of that.

Katniss relaxed with a chuckle. He would be back later. He always came back.

* * *

><p><strong>So I decided to post on my birthday to celebrate. Hope you guys enjoyed this ;)<br>**

****Birthday gift: Guys, my sweet husband just made me a website. It's super pretty, and it's up now! The link is posted on my Tumblr, so check it out! I'm at: andshewaits (d0T) tumblr (d0t) com**


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